


The Bloody Birthday

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1x10, Angry Sex, Betty Cooper Needs a Hug, Betty Cooper needs a therapist, Birthday Sex, Chuck Clayton is an asshole, Dark Betty Cooper, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ice Play, Love Bites, Scene Rewrite, Self-Harm, wrath - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 02:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16484240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: It's on her palms, in the ice, and on someone else's skin. The world is teetering in and out of focus, and all she can sense is blood. Blood and Jughead Jones, the birthday boy she's practically bathing in it.





	The Bloody Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Another one-shot. Why? Because I GOTTA. Takes place during 1x10 and the epic fight. Prompt was wrath so be prepared for some Dark Betty flutterings and reconciliation

It’s like he’s slung a stone right at her chest, cracking everything she so painstakingly put together. There’s a moment his rage ebbs, converting to consternation. He’s waiting for her to yell back, to protest again so he can push her away.

_Borrowed time._

_Perfect_.

Her nails bite into her palms, and even the sticky reminder of something outside of herself isn’t enough to pull her out of the swelling rage.

_I didn’t do enough for him._

She exits the garage before he thinks to sling any other accusations at her. Outside, at least she can _breathe_ without the tingling sensation of electricity prickling her lungs. She narrowly avoids a shoulder collision with Valerie, sliding around her and seeking out Kevin or Veronica. _Anyone_. Or no one.

She’s such an _idiot_. Assuming she could do anything _right,_ with all her careful planning…

_Borrowed time?_

“Betty!” Veronica blubbers from the porch, definitely on her way to obliterated. “Where are you going?” In a moment of accidental eye contact, Veronica seems to gain a moment of clarity, her fist closing around the space her pearls should be. “Did somebody bother you?”

“It’s fine, V,” she mutters, grabbing her wrist and bringing her inside. Water. Veronica needs water. Her palm throbs against Veronica’s skin, but she tries to ignore it as she grabs a glass and fills it in the sink.

“B!” Veronica gasps again, staring aghast at the splotchy marks Betty left on her wrist.

A hiss of anxiety sizzles through her veins. _They can’t know_. “Oh my god, V. I’m sorry. Here.” She shoves the water glass in Veronica’s other hand, quickly wetting a towel to scrape her blood off of her friend’s skin.

“Did he do this to you? Is that beanie-wearing hipster hurting you? Because I can kill him. I know people. I’m _related_ to them,” she slurs, dangerously serious and close to tears as she leans close to Betty, like she can pull the truth out of her eyes and use it as a whip to strike him down.

Something malleable slides down Betty’s throat. _Did he do this? No. It’s me, right? It’s always me._ “No,” she answers quietly. “I hurt myself on some glass.”

Veronica tsks and leans in to her for a sweaty hug. “I love you, B. You’re such a good girlfriend. And such a good friend.” The girl’s arms squeeze her tighter, sloshing some of the water down Betty’s back.

“Oooh now _this_ is a party. Can I interest either of you in a wet t-shirt contest?”

Rage vibrates in Betty’s veins, and it takes her a few measured seconds before she can untangle Veronica’s stale hairspray off her lips enough to focus on a leering muscled asshole in the kitchen doorway.

_I’ve seen the real you. The dark you. The Betty I think about every night…_

“Don’t stop the lady love on my account. I saw how Veronica looked at you at our little pool party,” he winks, sending a flush of hatred right down to Betty’s gut.

Veronica groans, stepping unsteadily into Betty’s legs. “Ugh, shut _up_ Chuck. You’re just sad you got blue balls and a sticky maple instead of a three-way with the hottest girls in school.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, and Betty can practically _feel_ her teeth sharpening. He should be _begging_ for forgiveness instead of swaggering like he’s the guest of honor. This party is supposed to be for Jughead, and he doesn’t even _want_ it. Now idiots like _Chuck_ are running over the house. Objectifying her. “Hey, I’m okay watching you two. That’s enough of a three-way for me, although I don’t know how the birthday boy will feel about it. Is that what you got him, Betty? A peek of you in that sexy lingerie? Or are you gonna fuck your best friend while he watches? I know keen you were on _his_ at one point.”

“Shut _up_ , Chuck,” Betty hisses, the words feeling like glass.

“Betty can fuck anyone she wants to,” Veronica insists, startlingly unhelpful. “And _you_ would never get to watch, let alone touch. So get your fuck boi attitude out of our faces, and this house, while you're at it.”

Sliding his eyes into a scoff, Chuck turns to leave the room. “Easy, V! You play your cards right, you might still have a chance with me.”

Veronica takes a piece of ice from the cooler and launches it at the back of his head.

“Veronica,” Betty hisses, grabbing her hand and pulling her away.

“What? He deserves it.”

Something’s hissing in her, desperate to get out. It’s like she’s been dropped in the water, darkness swimming around her vision. That night at Ethel’s. She lost herself. Dropping Veronica, Betty stuffs her hands in the cooler, the sharp sting of ice throbbing against her broken palms. The suddenness of the chill shudders through her bones, rooting her into the present.

_You’re Betty. You’re fine._

Off to the side, she hears the static shouts of Valerie calling Archie a hot mess, splashing something against him. It feels like it reaches her, little flecks of anger, humiliation sticking to her along with everything else.

_Until you get sick of slumming it with me and Archie finally decides he wants to be with you?_

The anger vibrates in her chest like a drum, and she has to shut her eyes and brace her feet against it.

_You’re fine, Betty. You’re fine, you’re—_

Veronica inhales sharply next to her, and Betty snaps open her eyes to witness Jughead stiffening in the doorway, glaring at the assembly including his father and…everyone else he chooses not to care about. His eyes flare with a storm, fists closed and lips curled downward. The inky hair that spills out from under his cap reminds her more of licking flames than the soft curly tendrils she normally associates with him.

Ethel slides forward with a plate of cake, because of _course_ she dug into it. The "ketchup" frosting lays solid but still looks a little like a wound. “You haven’t eaten your cake, Jug.” The girl holds out a piece of it on a fork, like she’s half expecting him to eat it directly from her hand.

_I’m right here!_

Betty wants to scream, to rip Ethel’s hair bow out and toss it across the room, to drag Jughead by the lapels of his jacket and smash their bodies together until their anger smolders to ash.

_I love you_ , she thinks uncontrollably, wanting to tear into his flesh with her nails, to pry it from his bones like she so often does with her own.

“I’m not staying,” Jughead says stiffly in lieu of actually acknowledging Ethel’s offering. The ire is meant for Betty. Maybe for FP, who's watching them brew with a quiet intensity.

Veronica jerks her chin back, affronted. “Betty literally made you a giant hamburger cake, and you’re not even going to eat it?”

“Guess I’m not worthy of the _best girlfriend ever_.” His sarcasm grates her skin. “Enjoy your drunken revelry. I’m out of here.”

_He’s leaving._

Shoulders high, jean jacket a coat of armor, Jughead stalks past them towards the door. Ethel flattens herself out along the wall, like she’s afraid to be associated with this memory. Like she wants to watch things fall apart. Just like in the hot tub scene.

“Jughead,” Betty calls, but he keeps striding forward.

Darkness ripples as her fingers tighten around something smooth. She plunges back into reality at a cracking sound. Jughead whips around, shocked blue eyes piercing her.

Her other hand’s numbing, fisted around the ice at her side. Did she…throw it?

“What the hell are you doing?”

Smashing the rest of the ice in a metallic final toss to the sink, Betty strides around the counter and grabs his lapels.

“Betty, what—?” he stutters, backing up as his own eyes are swallowed in darkness.

_I love you._

Unable to say the words here, she breathes them, air coming out of her lungs in hot bursts, no doubt chapping his lips.

_Please._

_I love you._

_Don’t hurt me._

_Don’t hurt me anymore._

His eyes dart across her face like they’re silently searching for the next line.

“Jughead,” she repeats, throat clogged.

“Betty…”

A shadow curls up from the living room this time, blocking the exit. “Well look what we have here. You gonna go dark for us Betty? Is it that time? You got your hooker lingerie and wig ready to go upstairs? You’re in for a _ride_ , Jughead. Trust me, as someone who’s been on it, I’d—“

When she pushes forward, her face is buried in Jughead’s chest, his hand in her ponytail, but it’s slipping away.

_Jughead…_

Crunching. A blur of jean jacket and shadows. She surges forward, unsure if it’s to be a shield or a weapon, when a large wall of plaid raises between them.

“That’s it! Party’s _over_ ,” FP declares, hauling Chuck out in a sleeper hold.

Realities tangled, she blinks at him. “Mr. Jones, I’m…”

“FP, kid,” he reassures her over his shoulder. A little bit of tension leaves her stomach, automatically reaching for Jughead. Her fingers are barely able to brush his sleeve before kids push them apart, making for the door. The door bonks open and closed with the sudden surge of bodies, FP waiting expectantly while Chuck stumbles off the lawn, liquid flinging from his lip. 

Finally taking a breath, Betty tries to calm herself, ground herself back in reality.

“Jughead…”

Startled, she realizes he’s leaving _with_ the mass.

“Jughead!”

Tucking his head down, he makes for the lawn. As if he could blend in with his beanie crown, his hair licking down into his collar. Betty feels panic bob in her throat every time his figure shifts, like each step is directly indicated by pressure on her lungs.

Letting out a low whimper, Betty turns back to the kitchen, shoving a pile of abandoned cups into the sink, watching the liquid trail across the ice fragments scattered like crushed bones.

Something shudders in her again, tears dripping straight from her eyes to join the mess in the sink, some of them sinking into her cheeks.

_I’m losing you. I’m losing myself. I’m…losing…_

Bare arms she’s fairly certain are Veronica’s wrap around her, constraining the eruptions to the shallow part of her ribs. Reality keeps streaking, even as her friend’s arms leave her, as the room goes silent and empty.

“Betty…”

_I’m sorry._

“I asked my dad to leave.”

_I’m sorry._

“Everyone else is gone now. Archie’s crashing on the couch. I made sure he has water and that he’s on his side so he doesn’t drown in his vomit.”

_I’m sorry._

“I’ve left him a note to clean up. It’s the least he can do for letting them all in.”

_I’m sorry._

“Your penance is probably _not_ being able to clean up.”

_I’m so sorry._

“You can go home if you want.”

_I’ve failed you._

She shakes her head, not wanting to wipe away her tears. Besides cooling the molten horror under her skin, they’re salty, stinging, to remind her that she’s real. She’d spent an hour perfecting the winged liner look in the hopes it would please him. That it would be _perfect_. Instead, it’s just waterproof. He probably hates it. Thinks she’s pretending to be something she’s not. _Perfect_.

_Perfect._

Her nails tighten against the edge of the counter.

“Do you wanna go to Pop’s?”

She shakes her head again, clearing the board in her mind, dark sprinkles scattering.

“Come on. Come upstairs.”

Mute, she follows, afraid he’ll disappear, flinching when his fingers curl around hers. Is she still bloody? The back of his jean jacket, his beanie, are going up this time. Ascending. She feels braver staring at the back of him in the silence that’s outside of her mind.

They close and lock Archie’s bedroom door, her house probably a dark speck across the way, hidden by the ratty blue curtains. Jughead can probably see her from here, her insane pastel life, write about it. Their first kiss, when he’d been so brave, when he’d taken her breath away.

They can’t see the garage, the place he’d taken it away for a completely different reason.

_This is the last thing that I would want._

“I’m sorry things got…heated.” He pushes the beanie off of his head, revealing silky strands of black hair swirling underneath. The mystery of what lays underneath grips her tightly.

_Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on? That’s weird._

Looking a little bashful, he glances up at her, as if he’s the one who’s vulnerable. Automatically, she sniffles and fixates on him, trying not to drown in the earnestness of his blue eyes. “I’m sure you meant well. It’s just…with my birthday…and in general, I’m just—I short circuit when people try to make decisions for me. Control me." With an annoyed sigh, he tosses his beanie by his pillow on the floor. His fingers streak nervously through the recently exposed hair. "Apparently when they try to do nice things for me, too. I’m just…it’s not me. It’s not something I’m used to. I guess I’m afraid of it. Of being rejected...for being me, or something.” His eyelashes drift over his cheeks, sad shadows touching the beauty marks on his cheek.

But he’s not the bad, unlovable one. He should know. Before they get too deep, even though she already feels like she's drowning. “There’s something wrong with me.” His chin raises up, eyes alert and focused at her broken voice. Trembling, she holds her hands out to him, aware of the way his mouth opens but doesn’t draw breath. His fingers pry her palms wider in the dim light, his thumb caressing their unmarred sides. “Sometimes I lose things. Moments. When I can’t control…everything. It just happens. This darkness in me, it makes me do these crazy things. I don’t know…it happened with Chuck. It happened tonight. I got so angry, so upset, I…”

He pushes her palms together, pressing a deep, cherishing kiss to seal away the pain. Then his eyes are back on her. Not with fear. Not with anger. Resolution.

Fire.

“I need to make it up to you, Juggie.”

“Betty, you don’t—“

Letting determination sink into her bones, she levels him with a stare. “Tell me what you want, Jug.”

Expression going soft, he touches her hair, tracing around her ear before settling on that spot just under her jaw. The jugular. The place he could just tear out of her with a few words, with his teeth. But he’s barely tasted her yet. “Just you, Betty. This is enough.”

Maybe it’s not. He _should_ have an amazing birthday, whether in a booth at Pop’s or Archie’s house. They should be in control again. _His_ party. _Hers_.

_It makes me do these crazy things_ …

For once, she wants to do something _right_ with this. Something raw. She’s always telling herself to find a new outlet for her anger.

With a hesitant shove, she pushes him against the door, Archie’s old band poster rattling in surprise. Jughead frowns, but doesn’t protest as she moves in, kissing him hard enough to leave a pink imprint on his lips. Their mouths open, her tongue lapping at his seam to show him what she needs, what she feels.

Hunger. Frustration.

Teeth nibbling at his lower lip, she savors the little groan, the wet sounds of salivating.

_Give it to me_.

_Give me your anger, your heat._

His eyes close tight, head knocking back into the door as her palm flattens across the seam of his zipper.

“Betty—“

“I want this, Jug. I want you. Especially after tonight…”

_You almost got away._

Thick denim gives way to thin cotton boxers, a dark color reminiscent of something she sees every morning. Tented. Tempting her. _Pink Perfection_ underneath. He shudders, firm and hot in her hands. Her scars feel more like stripes, streaking into zig-zags with every pump of her fist. Knees buckling, throat gasping for air, Jughead swears into the silence of the house, tossing his head back and forth while his hips bang out a steady rhythm to the ferocity of her fist.

_What did you do?_

Heartbeat quickening, she stares down at the flesh obstructed by her hand. This is good, but it isn’t enough.

Her mouth latches onto his neck, pulling the skin taught, sucking insistently until he shivers and keens, hands at her waist. “Betty,” he pleads.

The attention’s enough to lift his arms over his head, whipping off his jacket and shirt, only to be claimed by hot biting kisses as she marks down his torso, her other hand settling the disturbed flesh. A few seconds of pressure, of drawing his blood to the skin, to her lips, and he’s practically throbbing in her hand.

“Not yet, Juggie. There’s so much I want to do to you,” she warns, removing her fist and pushing his hips firmly against the door.

Her name’s a moan, a curse, hissed through anxious pleas as she leaves her mark on his skin. Shushing him, her tongue soothes a mark, hand caressing his length with the wetness oozing out his tip. Her gaze drifts down to the slow-burning mess.

There’s a spot on his hip. She wants it.

A flash of heat rushes through her tongue, her fangs, as she suctions his skin, drawing another hiss from his veins. His fingers drag through her tight ponytail, raking the animal instinct inside of her.

_Mine._

Not Ethel’s to feed. Not Veronica’s to chastise. Not Chuck’s to bait. She gets it. All of him. And she’ll protect him now, she knows better now.

“You’re my birthday boy, aren’t you?”

She’s not sure if she says it. When she finally tears her gaze away from the angry, lovely bruise on his hip, he’s looking down at her with such dark reverence that a pulse runs from his cock to her palm. It’s swallowing her whole, this void of theirs.

_I love you._

Jeans sinking to his knees, Jughead trembles as Betty does the same. Her tongue laves his tip, watching him with studied fascination. Even amidst the darkness, his eyes roll up like he’s possessed. With what? With this? With them?

_You’re mine. We belong to each other._

A coil starts brewing low in her gut. More. She wants more. To show him. To drag the very essence of him out and into herself. To settle his fear that she doesn’t crave him, when all she wants is his teeth dragged down her throat. Surprisingly, she can fit him fully in her mouth, the slightly salty flesh making her pucker and suck to adjust to his length. His hips buck, hands going around to the back of her head, guiding her, caressing her, and sometimes holding her, to ground him, she thinks. Her palm rounds him, twisting the places her mouth would work too hard to reach. With one long lick, she traces the seam of his soft sack all the way up to the edge of his dick, stretching her throat to swallow him whole.

Somewhere between a shout and a growl, Jughead jerks into her. He snaps her neck back, fist wound tight in her ponytail. “Betty, I’m going to come.”

Unblinking, she brings her mouth back to his tip, swirling her scars into the wetness of her spit on his skin. He trembles, eyes blown black until he surrenders to it, closing his eyelids and spilling his creamy seed against her tongue in spurts. It’s tangy, like something on the edge of going spoiled, but she can’t get enough of it. She laps at him lovingly, resisting the urge to gag as hips hips shove his flesh harder down her throat.

He’s ruined. Hair askew, chest and hip dark with bruises, skin sweaty, and breathing labored.

_My beautiful birthday boy_.

Amazed, she swallows and licks her lips, rubbing his thigh comfortingly since his energy seems to have been sapped.

There’s something on the tip of his tongue, maybe a compliment, a wry observation, but when he looks into her eyes all he can say is, “Yeah.”

Her face cracks into a grin. “Can I get you anything?”

“N…nah. I think…you did enough.” It isn’t supposed to sting, but it does. His brow furrows like he’s confused why her face is…whatever it is right now. “Can I get _you_ something?”

“No. I’m just…going to get some water.”

The swelling ache of kneeling on the floor finally catches up to her, and Jughead helps her wobble to her feet. Even with the recent consumption, he presses a chaste kiss to her lips, a quiet _thank you_.

Feeling slightly better, she helps him hoist his boxers up enough so he doesn’t trip over his own legs as they open the door. Archie’s passed out on the couch, like Jughead said, blissfully unaware of the present she’d gifted her boyfriend moments ago.

She fills a leftover solo cup with ice, figuring she’ll add it to the trash bags she’s started earlier. As she sips, the coolness brushing against her cheeks, she wonders. It’s not quite the angry fire that licks her anymore, but it reminds her of when she shoved her palms in the cooler earlier.

_Jughead._

He backs up onto his makeshift bed in just his boxers, dark hair flopping over his expectant face when she reenters. He’s been examining his marks in the mirror, his fingers tracing the darkened flesh as a reminder of her, of tonight. 

“I brought this for you.”

There’s a red solo cup of water, and one of just ice. She places them carefully next to his bed while she joins him in his nest of sheets. He downs the water, gazing curiously at the ice. “Chuck didn’t hurt me _that_ badly.”

“It’s not for Chuck,” she says, grateful that he’s not present and that her love doesn’t need a cold remedy. She carefully palms a cube, the fingers on her other hand trailing down Jughead’s exposed chest. Watching her with heated intensity, Jughead jerks against her hand as she presses the ice against his neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying something,” she mutters.

“Mm, I think you just did.” His chin tilts up in something close to a threat, eyes gleaming in the darkness. “I thought you agreed I wasn’t one of your projects.”

“You’re not.” She pulls the ice away, aware of the chilling trail its left on his collar, wanting to lick it up. Tentative, she leans forward, the bumps on her tongue catching the condensation on his skin, her lower lip dragging deliciously underneath.

Inhaling sharply, he grabs her shoulders and pushes her back. But she’s so hungry, struggling against him.

“Sit back, Betty.”

Straightening her back, she sits alert and ready.

_Take me. Tell me what to do._

She’s so high-strung that she flinches when his fingers reach under her shirt. He’s gently scraping her sides. Instinctively, she raises her hands, inhaling deeply when he lifts her crown sweater off. The stupid button-down underneath gets caught, and she tears at the buttons until he slaps her fingers away, his long and firm ones setting her free. 

“Jughead,” she breathes, shrugging out of it. His eyes drift down to the tops of her exposed breasts. Nodding, she juts out towards him, hands cautiously tugging at her bra strap.

“Let me.” His lips press against her collar, sweet kisses decorating her chin and lips as he angles over her shoulder to unhook the thin black band separating them. The suspension snaps, releasing the pressure right under her breasts, nipples grazing the thin material. It’s not the bold, risky thing she’d worn to Ethel’s. This one is meant to hide and support her flesh, discarded when she doesn’t want to anymore. And she _really_ doesn’t want to hide anymore. Not from Jughead. Not ever again.

“ _I’m sorry._ ”

“Shh, baby, I know,” he murmurs, fingers so soft and tantalizing that she shivers, angling into his lap. “We’re both sorry.”

Their mouths meet again, open and slick, her bra slung to the side so their chests are flush, heartbeats thrumming to a steady pace.

_Love me._

He sucks her pulse until she’s nearly crowing, cradled in his arms. Her hips grind down in a circular pattern on his lap, searching for something. _Relief_. His thumbs wrap around her breasts, squeezing and tempering and drawing moans from the pinched sensations that draw her anger to points just like her nails would to her palms.

_I love you._

“Can I do something for you, Betty?”

“It’s _your_ birth—“

His mouth firmly and effectively silences any protests she might half-heartedly make. Melting, she nods, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands surprisingly lift her off of him, making quick work of her jeans. He admires the wetness of her underwear before helping her off with those as well.

Bare.

_Now_ the desire to hide flutters up in her throat.

Jughead’s lean muscular body covers her, his eyes shaving the flesh off her bones as he pries her knees apart.

“Does this make you feel good?” he asks, dripping ice on her stomach in a way that makes her want to be coated in his come. Hissing breath, she nods, her fingers cradling his jaw.

The angry bruises on his body need their mates, and he starts with her breasts. The ice pebbles her, his tongue softening the hard shell her body tries to create. Everything in her cries, keens. He’s using tongue, teeth, fingers, some on her skin, others…slick against her slit. Consumed, she feels like he’s gnawing off parts of her, burying her in her own want, her own mistakes. There is no control.

His lips suck so fervently at her hip that she fears the joint itself is shifting out of place. Between her legs, something throbs and flares, threatening to unleash. “Juggie, no!”

Snapping back, he looks up at her. “You want me to stop?”

_No…_

Her eyes flicker to the blossoming mark. A match to his. A temporary tattoo that shadows the real blood and fury lurking underneath.

_Perfect._

It’s time to surrender, thighs spreading wider as his serpentine locks drag across the soft skin on her stomach, his lips treading lower, lower…

* * *

 

Clothes seem like arbitrary constructs, another way to control her. It could just be residual anger at having to get up and redress when Jughead’s so _alive_ next to her, but the thought that she had to wear a conservative button-down under the special sweater she wore for Juggie just in _case_ she bore some midriff seems…infuriating. Her body should be worshipped and she should worship _with_ it. Since they’ve been together, she hasn’t lost a moment.

Sated and weary, Jughead looks like he’s been through a war.

_I love you._

Her hand brushes along his face, wiping away a stray smear of herself on his lips. The wounds on her palms seem to have healed. Arousal is so much different than blood, but tonight…

“Would you kill someone for me, Jughead?”

Moaning, he pulls her tighter against his body. “I almost _tried_. I don’t know _what_ I’d do for you, Betty.”

The possibilities flare through her, her pulse skyrocketing and throat draining of moisture.

“Veronica said she would.”

Sensing her heartbeat, maybe controlling it, he slits his eyes at her. “Do you want me to kill Veronica?”

“No…”

“Then stop making me jealous and get in here for cuddles.”

The domesticity of it all draws an unexpected laugh up from her throat, curing it of dryness. Pressing her face into him, the sharp smell of sweat and _Jughead_ overwhelms her. Nails immediately find their residual tracks on his chest. Even more are on his back.

_I love you._

Sighing contentedly, she feels the burn of their hip bones seared together.

_Maybe it_ **_is_ ** _perfect._

**Author's Note:**

> 1x10 is a GREAT episode. I love it. I really got invested in their argument and would be happy to write a mini dissertation/discussion with peeps about it. Thank goodness they reconciled, right? THAT BEAUTIFUL CAKE almost went to waste! How are we feeling? Enjoying the ice? Feeling cheated that I left out the actual details of Jughead enjoying a late-night snack? Alrighty I'm gonna go crawl out of my deadline-nonsense and comment on this communities' lovely things and polish up my WIPs. Lemme know your thoughts and have a great night!


End file.
